There is a monster lurking in the laboratory where I work. This monster waits silently and patiently for an opportunity to strike. He has no glowing red eyes or any razor sharp teeth, no low warning growl to allow me to prepare for the ineluctable attack. He prowls the lab, randomly assailing the innocent. He is terrifying. He is treacherous. He is static electricity. Come on, now. Stop laughing- getting zapped hurts.
Allow me to set the scene in a less dramatic tone. The lab I work in is very dry. Your average desert, should you happen to have one, has about 10 to 20% humidity. We have to measure the humidity in the lab every day, and it’s a red-letter day if it reaches double digits. “Grab the ponchos!” we shout. “It’s like a rainforest in here!” No, we don’t. Working in a lab is serious business. One day I think the humid-o-meter in the lab will report a negative number. If that’s even possible. I think the air would instantly crystallize and come shattering to the ground. Or, if you set foot in the lab- what’s the polar opposite of drowning? That’s right, instant mummification. I haven’t found any scarab beetles on my person, so I’m pretty sure the humidity hasn’t gotten that low. It’s really dry in here, that’s all I’m saying, and a dry environment is the natural habitat of static electricity.
Another aspect of the lab that makes static electricity come a-runnin’ is that it’s partially carpeted. This is totally unnecessary, and could probably constitute cruel and unusual punishment. It’s equivalent to coating yourself in Shake’n’Bake before going swimming with Jaws. He’s gonna eat you whether you have a tasty, crispy coating or not. Might as well save yourself the trouble. Dropping that simile and moving on, the lab does provide us with shirts that are supposed to deflect static electricity. Uh, they don’t. It’s a nice idea, though. They look like button up football jerseys, but without the numbers. Maybe they thought numbers might encourage horseplay. “Hey, Bill- would you pass me that beaker of Ebola?” “Sure! Go long!” If you can’t tell, I don’t put much stock in these ineffectual pieces of clothing.
We do have an alternate weapon in the war against static electricity: the wrist strap. These are worn, not surprisingly, on your wrist, and keep you ‘grounded.’ Not grounded in the sense of ‘I can’t believe you shaved the cat’s tail again, you’re grounded.’ More along the lines of ‘I’ll be able to walk around without building up enough charge to jettison my teeth from my still-smoking gums when I touch the table again’ grounded. The wrist straps work pretty well, if you wear one. It’s the wearing that presents the problem, really. The strap is connected to the table with a coiled cord, so that when I wear it I feel like an unruly toddler wearing a kid-leash. It gives me an urge to eat sugar, demand a new toy, and then sweep everything off of the table in a temper tantrum. And it’s pretty much unavoidable that I knock something over while reaching for a plate, because I forget that I have a telephone cord attached to me. I feel Pinocchio’s pain.
Prior to discovering the wrist strap, I had developed my own ways to combat the zaps. Firstly, if you try to just avoid touching the metal, it will only end in tears, and static electricity will win every time. The charge will continue to build and when you finally do touch the metal, your hand will explode. It’s true; don’t question me. Initially, every time I returned to the table from other lab-related (or not, depending on my motivation level that day) activities I would slap the table in an effort to lessen the sting of the zap. For some reason, this hurts less than having the spark jump to your finger, which is comparable to having a tiny crowbar used to lift your fingernail like the hood of a car. I did this enough that it became a habit, which was good in the sense that I didn’t have to think about doing it before touching the table, but bad in the sense that it carried over to my everyday life. Normally static electricity isn’t a problem for me, yet out of habit I now slap everything I came into contact with. Not a slap that could be passed off as ‘whoops my depth perception’s a bit off and I misjudged the distance from my hand to that object.’ It was a definite girly slap, in the same vein as those performed while squealing “Icky! Get it away!” or “Oh, you!” This becomes an immediate problem when I need to touch something, which I have been doing quite regularly ever since I discovered I had opposable thumbs, because it is also accompanied by an involuntary wince. This applies to everything I touch on a fairly regular basis, including car doors, finger food, circus performers (don’t judge me), plants… the list goes on and on. It’s a recipe for disaster, really.
A little while ago I discovered that the demon zap also travels through clothing. So, in the interest of protecting my fingers, I’ve taken to hip checking the table every time I approach it. Fortunately, this habit has thus far remained in the lab. Let’s hope it stays there, or I’ll look even more like an escaped mental patient than I do now: wincing as I slap or hip check everything in sight. At least mental patients can blame these behaviors on the electroshock therapy.
Inevitably, this shocking will have some disastrous effect on me. One day, after the atoms in my body have lost and regained electrons one time too many, a critical charge will be reached. My cells will begin to morph, my body processes will be irreparably altered, and I will become… a comic book supervillian. That’s right, I’ve been looking into it. And as much as I’d like to be the hero rather than the villain, an individual imbued with static electricity-based powers seems more suited to evil rather than good. I mean, come on- ‘The Static Avenger’ is a lame name. ‘Protecting clothes from clinging socks and underwear in a major metropolitan area near you.’ Nuh-uh. Besides, the hero is always saddled with annoyances like morals, a conscience, an exploitable weak point and the traumatic death of a beloved family member. As an evil villain, I’d be entitled to witty banter, peons to do my bidding, a chance at world domination and a lair. A frickin’ lair! Mine would be great- I’m thinking inside a giant Van de Graff generator. And just between us, my weak point would be something totally unrelated to my power- like, a mild peanut allergy. Nothing so obvious as dryer sheets. So back off, Snuggle. What superhero would try to fight static electricity with peanuts? I’m totally set!
So I guess copious amounts of static electricity is a mixed blessing, albeit a little heavy-handed on the negative side. No pun intended. Sure, sometimes I feel like a monkey in some bizarre psychological button-pushing experiment where all of the buttons are electrified, even though he was told that one of them would yield a banana reward. Or another monkey-approved reward- Cheerios, kittens, Bobby McFerrin tapes- whatever. Static electricity has become both the bane of my existence and the catalyst for my villainous transformation. What it boils down to is this: no pain, no powers. So if I’m gonna get this transformation underway, I got me some slappin’ and shockin’ to do. And then (mwah hah hah hah hah) let the Battle of Electronegativity begin. Bring it on, Snuggle. Bring it on.
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